


Conviction

by doodle



Series: (My Heart) In Your Hands [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstanding, No Spoilers, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodle/pseuds/doodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/307201">(My Heart) In Your Hands: Compromise</a></p><p>After John's reactions to finding Irene's photograph framed beside his bed, Sherlock has to face the possibility that John doesn't understand him, or their relationship, quite as much as he believed.</p><p>(This was written before <i>any</i> information was released about Scandal in Belgravia, or Irene's character. There are <i>no</i> spoilers in this story for anything at all, and the story has not been edited since before the Scandal in Belgravia screening.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as an idle thought about ACD Canon Holmes' relationship with Irene as an intellectual pursuit only, and somehow ended up turning in to a BBC Sherlock story. It then turned into a very angsty Sherlock story, focusing entirely on John. _Then_ someone asked me about Sherlock in this situation and it all got a bit more interesting, and this second part of the story happened. I decided I should probably post it before the new series starts and the whole Sherlock landscape changes dramatically.
> 
> Both pieces are intended to be read together, and in the order of posting.

Sherlock watches John climb the stairs. He knows every mood, every movement, and every breath of John’s. He has catalogued them over six months, his own deepening knowledge echoing their steady development towards intimacy.

Sherlock may understand what the slope of John’s shoulders, the slump in his spine and the slow, weary tread of his footsteps mean, but it doesn’t tell him why. All he knows is that John has _lied_.  

He is not all right. John is unhappy and this is not something a bit of sleep will fix.

Sherlock considers the situation. He stays sat on the sofa with his head in his hands and desperately wills his brain to _understand_ for twenty minutes. No answers come, only frustration. He doesn’t have enough data to form any conclusions, doesn’t have any point of comparison as he and John have never been in this situation before.

Sherlock gave John the assurances he wanted, assurances that were truthful as well. There was nothing sexual, or emotional, between Irene and himself. He doesn’t understand why it isn’t enough for John.

Sherlock even stayed, despite the still wounding dig John had made, when before them he would have left. Perhaps John has a point, surely if this were a normal relationship Sherlock would know what was wrong. He would know what to do.

All Sherlock does know is that he wants, needs to stop John being unhappy. He may not know the underlying cause, but he can at least attempt to treat the symptoms until John is ready to talk. John has stressed the importance of patience in relationships, and while it is not in Sherlock’s nature to be patient he is willing to try for John. He _loves_ John and wants things to be better, to go back to how they were before he found that bloody woman’s photograph.

John doesn’t like it when Sherlock spends the night in his own bed, or worse, stretched out across the sofa and wide awake. So Sherlock climbs the stairs slowly, taking extra care to step on the creaky boards on the fifth and seventh steps to let John know he is coming. It seems as though it might be the right thing to do.

Once in John’s bedroom Sherlock strips and redresses in the dark into the pyjamas he left beside the bed the night before. John’s breathing is even and steady but he is not asleep as Sherlock slips beneath the duvet.

John enjoys physical intimacy, and not just the sexual kind. Touches reassure and calm him, chaste and stolen kisses make him smile bright enough to blind and he without fail melts into Sherlock’s arms as though it’s his favourite place in the world to be. The way he usually wraps himself around Sherlock, curls into his side and tucks himself under Sherlock’s armpit suggest it very well might be.

Therefore non-sexual intimacy seems like a good place to start.

Sherlock attempts to close the distance between John and himself, leaning in for one of those chaste kisses and to say “Goodnight.”

John’s whole body tenses beside Sherlock. “Night, Sherlock,” he offers in return and doesn’t allow the kiss. John rolls onto his side and away from Sherlock instead.

Sherlock retreats to his own side of the bed and focuses all of his attention on levelling his breathing. John cannot know how very close to panicking he is. John has never once, no matter how angry he has been at Sherlock, shied away from physical contact.

Being patient is a great deal harder than Sherlock ever expected, even in his worst nightmares, and he’d always thought it would be absolutely terrible. John lies almost rigid next to Sherlock wide awake, and it’s impossible for Sherlock to sleep. Not when everything with John is so _wrong_ and Sherlock doesn’t know why or how to fix it. Worse still, if he even can.

It scares him.

At just after four John finally gives in to exhaustion and falls asleep. Sherlock waits until he is fully into his first REM cycle to abandon both the bed and the room. Sherlock is certain that if he remained in the bedroom with John for much longer he might have lost his mind.

Sherlock retreats back to the living room and he doesn’t bother to dress on the way. He finds Irene’s photograph where he left it on the sofa and crushes it into an angry ball before depositing it in the kitchen bin.

Irene doesn’t matter anymore. Irene hasn’t mattered for a long time. All that matters is John, and Sherlock thinks about the cold distance between them in the bed and is terrified by the possibility that he might lose him. What John’s refusal to touch, something that always brings John such comfort and pleasure and joy, could mean.

Even when John has been his angriest with Sherlock he has allowed contact, has wanted to touch and be touched.

Sherlock wonders if this is how _normal_ people fight. If partners lie and swear they’re fine when they’re clearly not, if words of assurance aren’t enough, if offers of physical comfort are rejected. Sherlock doesn’t know and the only person he is willing to ask about such matters is the one person he can’t. John.

What if John wants someone who understands? Someone who realises the damage a photograph like Irene’s can do and stops it before it happens. What if John decides that he wants normal again, something that for all the love Sherlock has for John, he is unable to give.

Sherlock sits in the kitchen and waits for dawn over cold cups of tea. He runs through the periodic table in his mind until it starts to blur together and then switches to multiplication tables. Anything to stop himself from contemplating the nauseating and terrifying notion of John leaving him, of losing the only person who understands him.

It’s just after ten when John finally joins Sherlock in the kitchen, hastily dressed and monosyllabic while he makes tea and toast. If it weren’t for John’s shoulders still being slumped under a weight Sherlock doesn’t understand, he could almost be fooled into believing it was just an ordinary morning.

Sherlock is unable to stand it any longer. He cannot be patient when things so clearly need to be fixed, when he has so much to lose.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” he says once John has finished his first cup of tea.

John looks up at Sherlock as if he’s seeing him for the first time, as though he hasn’t just spend the last half an hour in the same kitchen. “I don’t remember,” John lies.

For just a moment Sherlock is unable to breathe. He gathers himself and presses on, because if he doesn’t get answers then he will never know how to fix things when they go wrong. He cannot learn if John won’t teach him, and he wants to learn. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” John continues to lie, but it is not his best. Anyone could see through it.

Sherlock struggles to find the ideal thing to say, the situation so foreign he doesn’t know how to proceed, let alone which would be the best way. “Then tell me what a normal person would do, right now.”

John blinks. “Pardon?”

Sherlock looks down into the cold and poorly made tea he has been nursing since just after sunrise and wonders why John is surprised. He has already made it clear that one of Sherlock’s failings in their relationship is his lack of normality. Is it really such a shock that Sherlock would want to bridge the gap in his understanding the best he can, for the sake of repairing their relationship?

“You are very obviously not all right and I want to fix this, but I don’t know how. All I know is that this all started with Irene’s photograph, so I put it in the bin. This morning. It’s destroyed, but I suspect this will not be enough. I would like you to help me understand what else I should do.”

John’s gaze flickers across to the bin, and though he returns his attention to Sherlock as soon as he realises what he has done, it’s too late. “You er, didn’t have to do that,” John says in contradiction. He clearly wants to check that the photograph has been destroyed.

“Destroying it seemed to be the best course,” Sherlock says though it’s immediately clear it isn’t enough. John is still very obviously unsure whether he believes Sherlock has destroyed it.

“I know that I am not… _experienced_ in such matters, and that as a result our relationship is not normal, however I want to fix whatever is wrong. What else do I need to do?”

“You don’t need to do anything,” John says in quickly, in a poor attempt to reassure him. Sherlock imagines it’s poor because it is not sincere. “I overreacted. It’s fine.”

“I don’t think even Lestrade would believe _it’s fine_ , John,” Sherlock says, with a great deal of effort not to put any bite into the words. He has learnt from arguments past that John is hoping Sherlock will believe him, not assuming he is so stupid he won’t see through the lie. “I don’t know what else I can say to assure you, to make you believe me but I will do whatever it requires. My interest in Irene was purely intellectual. All that matters to me now is my interest in _you_.”

Then Sherlock sees it. It’s in John’s eyes, written all over his face and in the way his whole body tenses, involuntarily and for just a fraction of a section at the mention of Irene. At Sherlock’s declaration of interest in her intellect alone.

“You’re upset _because_ my interest in Irene was intellectual as opposed to physical?” The question slips out before Sherlock can stop it, he’s taken by such surprise at the concept. It is a complete reversal of John’s jealousy from the night before and he can’t even begin to understand the change in John’s position.

He must be wrong.

“I think it’s best you leave it, Sherlock,” John says, and the whole world shifts beneath Sherlock.

He isn’t wrong.

John was angry when he believed that Sherlock had a physical interest in Irene, but he hasn’t been angry since before he went to bed. Since Sherlock had assured John that his interest in Irene was purely intellectual. Now John is _upset_.

Upset because of Sherlock’s purely academic interest in Irene and how can John be so wrong? How can he honestly believe that an intellectual respect could threaten what Sherlock feels for him?

“How can you not see?” The words explode out of Sherlock in confusion as soon as it all falls into place.

John always knows when it comes to Sherlock. What he is trying to say, what he is unable to say. John has always understood Sherlock in ways everyone else has consistently failed to. Until this very moment Sherlock has always believed it applied to their relationship as well. “It’s your job to _see_.”

John’s face is calm, but Sherlock knows better than to fall for it, not when there’s that distant, wounded glimmer in his eyes. “To see what?”

“Me,” Sherlock says softly, hoping that John will once again understand.

He doesn’t.

“Now _really_ isn’t the time for you to be expecting me to tell you how brilliant you are.”

He knows it’s not physically possible but Sherlock is certain that his heart stops beating at John’s words and his cool, tired tone.

“You’re supposed to understand, John,” Sherlock says softly, aware that he is pleading. He feels as though he’s been completely derailed by the knowledge that John doesn’t understand. He’s desperate for John to read between the lines of their relationship, to see everything he isn’t saying. Everything he has not been saying since John Watson walked into his life and stole his heart when he didn’t even think he had one to give. What he thought John already knew. “You’re the person who doesn’t doubt me.”

The hard line of John’s shoulders soften a little as he promises, “I don’t doubt you.”

Sherlock wishes he could believe him. That everything he had believed about their relationship was true. That John understood how much Sherlock’s commitment to him truly meant, but he doesn’t and it’s suddenly difficult for Sherlock to breathe.

“You flinched when I mentioned Irene, when I mentioned her intellect. You’ve not been the same since last night when I told you I wasn’t interested in her sexually or emotionally. I’m right, I know I am.”

“And so what if you bloody well are?” John snaps, huffing an angry sigh as he glares at a patch of wall over Sherlock’s shoulder and his jaw tightens.

“You’re wrong, John. You’re _wrong_.” It feels like the words are being ripped out of Sherlock at the sheer weight of them. The notion that John doesn’t understand just how much he means to Sherlock, that he is everything.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Sherlock,” John growls, climbing down from the kitchen stool he is sat on. “No, actually. _Don’t_ ,” he adds, stamping angrily around the counter towards the door.  

Sherlock reaches out and grabs John’s wrist, curls his fingers around the solid weight of bones and muscle and warm skin but only holds him lightly. It’s a request for John to stay rather than an attempt to force him, which would only make matters worse.

John pauses for a moment and meets Sherlock’s eyes. There’s no permission there, but at the same time John isn’t demanding that he keep his bloody mouth shut. Sherlock recognises the moment for what it is.

John does not understand what Sherlock feels for him, the weight and importance of it. If Sherlock doesn’t tell him now, doesn’t make him understand they will not last. It’s now or never.

Sherlock has never been good with words, at least not the ones that count to people like John. Words for feelings, relationships and emotions, the language is foreign to him but never before has he wanted so very much to command it.

Everything rests on what he says next to John Watson. All he can do is speak from the heart and hope that it is enough, that John will know how difficult such a task is for him.

“John Watson, you are _extraordinary_ in every way that counts. You’ve killed for me. You were willing to die for me. Who better could I chose to love? To trust with something I have never given to any other person before.”

“Sherlock-,” John breathes and Sherlock can feel that he’s started trembling.

Sherlock doesn’t let him speak, he needs to finish what he’s started to say before it’s lost forever. “Before we met I put the highest price on intellect and everything else was merely a distraction. Then I met you and everything changed. Before you, I didn’t need to love anyone, John and I have never wanted to, but I love you. _Completely_. There is nothing else more valuable than what I’ve given you, my heart and the trust not to damage it. I don’t know what else I can say if that isn’t enough, if you cannot see that in comparison to what you have of me, anyone else’s intellect means nothing.”

“That was-. Wow. That was a lot. From you,” John fumbles for words after a long moment’s silence. His face something like Sherlock imagines how a deer in headlights would look. He’s fully shaking now and Sherlock can feel the tremors running through his fingertips. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees and releases his hold on John’s wrist.

John stumbles out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sherlock follows and waits until John has dropped down into the middle of the sofa before joining, sitting opposite him on the coffee table.

He waits as John rests his head in his hands and takes several deep, shuddering breaths. “I didn’t-,” John starts, but doesn’t finish. Still lost for words as he scrubs a hand over his face, eyes red and the dark smudges from lack of sleep beneath them are even more pronounced.

Sherlock is torn, between the desire to pull John into his arms and never let him go, and the sharp, throbbing pain inside his chest at the knowledge that John has not known. That Sherlock has given him the most important and terrifying thing and John hasn’t known the value of it all this time.

“I was under the impression you knew,” he says when it becomes increasingly clear that John is still attempting, and most likely failing, to process Sherlock’s words. “I thought that knowing I had not been in love, or in a relationship, before meant you would understand the importance of my feelings for you.”

John meets Sherlock’s eyes and there is honesty and pain there. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“You have always understood me in ways that everyone has failed. I made the presumption that you-,” he stops himself. “I was wrong and it was important. That you know.”

John is silent. His gaze is focused on where his still trembling hands are clutched together and Sherlock doesn’t dare touch him. He doesn’t know what John is thinking, and aside from not liking it, he’s afraid. That John still doesn’t know just how breathtakingly frightening every moment of being in love with John is, to stay with him instead of running away.

“Loving you is the most terrifying thing I have ever done. The largest, the _only_ , leap of faith I have taken for another human being. It is everything, John. You are everything. I need you to know this.”

Sherlock watches John swallow, the heavy bob of his Adam’s apple and still he says nothing. Sherlock can feel his heart rate and blood pressure increase as the panic starts to spike. There is nothing else he can say, he has given John everything he has in his heart and what if it’s still not enough?

“John?” He asks, knowing there is nothing he can do to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John whispers and meets Sherlock’s eyes. There is so much emotion there and Sherlock can’t even begin to unravel it all, to understand what John is thinking, feeling. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Sherlock swallows and reaches across the distance with a courage he didn’t know he possessed, to take John’s hands in his, unwinding the knot they are in to thread their fingers together. “I would very much like you to say that you believe me.”

Sherlock isn’t ashamed to admit he’s almost begging. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if John doesn’t.

“Oh god, I believe you,” John rushes out. It’s as though Sherlock’s final, desperate plea and has snapped him back to life and Sherlock can see the guilt, shining damp and bright in his eyes. “Of course I believe you. I’m _sorry_. I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I love you, so bloody much, and I should have known.”

John slumps forward, resting his forehead against their joined hands and breathing deeply. Sherlock has seen John emotional on several occasions, but never has he seemed so broken and bare as he does now.

There is guilt and relief and most importantly to Sherlock, love.

Sherlock’s mind is racing, endeavouring to process all that has happened between them in the last twenty-four hours. The realisation that John has stayed with him, has loved him, even though he didn’t know his affection was returned.

“Why?” He asks, unable to contain the question as he tries, and fails to find the answer. Why would John remain with Sherlock, with his great many faults and failings, if he didn’t believe in the strength of his affection?

“Why what?” John responds, his thumb stroking over Sherlock’s knuckles as he looks up again. Sherlock pretends he doesn’t see the increased redness in John’s eyes, the dampness clinging to his eyelashes as he heaves in deep, shaking breaths.

“Why would you stay with me, if you didn’t believe that I loved you in the same way as you loved me?”

“Sherlock-,” John starts and Sherlock knows, instantly, that John is about to attempt to evade answering.  

“Please, John,” Sherlock requests, squeezing John’s hand lightly in his own. He knows that John’s answer is important, as much as Sherlock’s declaration of love. “I need to know.”

“Because I love you,” John says with a soft, broken sounding laugh, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. Maybe it is, to anyone with more experience in such matters than Sherlock. “Because I’m mad with it, mad on you. And I’d rather have pieces of you, than nothing at all.”

For once John doesn’t need to say it, doesn’t need to be explicit.

Never before has Sherlock been so glad for John to be wrong, but he is not going to risk it again. There has been too much miscommunication and as much as Sherlock dislikes speaking of his emotions, he wants it to be clear.

He wants John, this, _them_ , forever and he will do whatever he must to ensure such a debacle never occurs again.

“You have all of me. You have done since the moment you grabbed Moriarty and told me to run. More than anyone has ever had of me.”

“I know, and I should have known, and I shouldn’t have doubted you. I won’t do it again, if you’ll still have me,” John says and there is still guilt in his voice, tangled up with fear and it’s so utterly foreign in Sherlock’s ears. That John, his brave, stoic John is afraid, that anyone should be afraid of losing him.

“You’re John Watson. _My_ John Watson,” he corrects and can’t help but laugh at the very idea of it, of being able to let him go. A possessive heat flares inside his chest at the notion. “How could I not?”

“Easily, if you were anything near sensible, but I’m glad you’re not.” There’s a curl to John’s mouth as he speaks and some of the tension in the line of his shoulders and jaw starts to ease. It’s relief and Sherlock has never been so glad to see it. “I don’t know what I’d do, if you didn’t.”

There is still a long way to go until things are as they were between them yesterday, as close to normal as they come, but this is the first step. John is not leaving, he still wants Sherlock and Sherlock wants him in return.

“Always, John. I will want you always. You have my heart in your hands, I’m trusting you to keep it safe.”

“I will,” John swears as he leans across the distance between them. “I promise,” he breathes against Sherlock’s lips with a kiss that’s chaste and perfect and full of love.

Sherlock believes him.

 


End file.
